Perfect Odds
by PlaidButterfly
Summary: Luke Skywalker gets help from Anakin's spirit on the battlefield - even against his own wishes.


Luke Skywalker looked out over the soldiers in formation and, secure in the nook of a hiding place he had found, brought his comlink to his lips and drew in a long anxious breath through his teeth. "When you said that you had a side-mission for me, this a bit more than what I expected."

In a burst of static, Han's voice answered him. "That's what you get for calling yourself a Jedi, kid!"

He paused to roll his eyes a bit and sigh as he looked back over the lines of stormtroopers. Morning exercises were supposedly the best time for this attack; he knew the logic about crushing this fortress so that they could liberate the nearby town, a toehold of a base on a larger planet. It was the first of what would be many victories of a new Rebel Alliance that had thrown off the twin evil specters of the Emperor and Vader, that much was certain. And it was possible, he knew, because all things were, but all the neat rows of white in morning training...

Luke didn't flick on his comlink, but did give a long sigh and murmur to himself. "Terrible odds," he grumbled.

He had not been expecting an answer from a voice that was so simultaneously familiar and foreign. "No, they're perfect odds." Jumping, he jerked back a bit; the figure was translucent in a way that he knew before as some sort of force-ghost, and the eyes were familiar, although it was hard to say whether he knew the other man mainly through appearance or through how he carried himself in the Force. The scar that framed one eye was pronounced, the curly hair messy in a way that oddly presented itself as battle-readiness. There was something strange about the spirit in that prepared attitude, something less at peace. He saw the light of recognition on Luke's eyes, and grinned a jackal's smile, something unkind and more full of fangs than a Jedi's should ever be.

Luke's eyebrows knitted in worry, and Anakin Skywalker repeated: "They're _perfect_ odds." The son stared, but the father grinned, taking his hands down from where they had been crossed over his chest in an expression of quiet power.

When Luke finally spoke, his tone was still soft in some residue of culture-driven respect. "I don't understand -"

And his father cut him off, reaching out. "Then I'll show you." His tone was brusque, too bold; Luke tried to snap back, but before he knew it, Anakin's hands had reached out over his own, taking them by the wrists - then inside the wrists -

Then his hands were not his own.

The next few hours were a blur that despite how much he strained he could never remember. He was told later that he only answered his comlink twice, snapping at Leia impatiently before yelling in a dull roar for everyone to shut up and concentrate on fighting. It had meant to be a joke to cheer him up some time later, but another commander's laughing comment that he should relax because he 'sounded like Vader, almost' was not comforting in the least. Instead of making him smile, the failed joke was a thorn in his side for decades afterward.

First there was the smell of smoke - and blood - and the light ozone of heavy blaster fire and lightsaber use. Then the world blurred, swooned, and came back into focus, and then finally he could wiggle his fingers freely again, although thankfully he did not actually drop his lightsaber. He didn't notice his father's spirit again immediately, but instead the ruin. The parade-grounds had become a no-man's-land of shattered earth and broken bodies. One man, face almost as grey as his officer's uniform, was reaching out from where he was trapped underneath a slab of rubble; his lips were stained with blood as he begged in a whisper. "Please, oh Gods, please just kill me..."

His mouth ran dry as he looked at all the destruction. Beside him, the specter of Anakin began to laugh, but he glared at his father's spirit with an almost wounded sort of confused glare. It was death, brutal death, unneeded cruelty. "This is not... not what I -"

"Not what you meant to do? Not what you intended?" He grinned, something about his loose form becoming less and less Jedi-like, smiling with all the kindness of Loki at Ragnarok. It was then that Luke finally seemed to understand this was only a partial slice of his father, the part not at peace, the half-formed spirit destined to stalk the world like a coyote perpetually running through prairie grasses. This did not stop every step from being absolutely menacing in a way that made Luke scramble to back up as Anakin's spirit leaned in. He bit out every word. "You should know that every officer aboard the first Death Star you've killed was as much a man as these. It's something we share, Luke." He leaned in, the whisper making Luke shiver: "We're both _murderers_."

The smile was just as disturbing as Anakin pulled back, although more dazzling in twisted joy. "See? Perfect odds." He gestured out to the destruction and began to laugh.

It was fortunate that he was able to fight back the nausea, making the laughter fade just enough so he could hear the man's breathless pleading for death. He knew, crushed so, it would be a few agonizing hours until the man finally choked and died. Happy gurgle he gave as he saw the lightsaber blade approaching his head did not make Luke feel more confident about the situation, but nonetheless one sweep of a coup-de-grace later, the Imperial captain's head lolled to the side.

Then, much to the spirit's annoyance, the only one listening to him was the corpse. Luke left them both behind.


End file.
